


As Normal As Anyone

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Inspired by Twitter, Little bit angsty, M/M, Vampire Sherlock, little bit cracky, penguin John, yeah I know but it kinda works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock's a gay boxing vampire with a penguin husband. Of course.





	As Normal As Anyone

**Author's Note:**

> Good grief, I have no idea how this even came together. Blame twitter, I suppose.  
> Prompt is basically, 'Sherlock is a gay boxing vampire married to a penguin.'  
> I have looked more closely at penguin info than vampire theory, but honestly, I'm happy with this mix of angst and fluff and slightly cracky stuff. I hope it makes you smile, too.  
> Thanks to everyone on twitter for being enthusiastic enough about this ridiculous idea to make it happen! I hope there are lots more stories from this prompt <3

“John!”

Sherlock dropped his bag inside the door of Baker Street, wincing at the tingle under his skin. He’d cut it pretty close, coming home this close to dawn, and the early morning light, grey and hazy as it was, still pricked at his face and arms. _Should have worn a jacket._ A cold shower would ease the discomfort but Sherlock knew that only a solid ten hours out of the light would stop the reaction.

_Boring._

“John!”

Sweat was drying on his skin, adding to the irritating tingle, and Sherlock knew his attitude was evident in his voice. It wasn’t only his skin – his mind was full of _red-sweet-hot-iron_ he’d seen splashed all over the ring tonight. He clenched his fingers against the kitchen bench.

It didn’t matter. It did not _matter._ It was _boring._

_BORING._

Stomping over to the fridge he pulled out a bottle of blood, wincing at the label – Molly knew he hated A-negative. Defiantly he drank straight from the bottle, knowing it would be thick and unappealing but finding the microwave tiresome. John would be less tolerant of his bad mood if he knew Sherlock hadn’t drunk something.

Sherlock drew breath to shout again, but the cat-flap in the bathroom door pushed out and John appeared. From a quick glance Sherlock could see John was no less irritated than he was. Even a 30cm tall bird had tells - the clicking beak and brisk waddle was a giveaway. 

“Fishmonger again?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“He knows I prefer fresh anchovies,” John fumed. “Never has ‘em, I always end up with the frozen stuff.”

Sherlock winced. “Do you want me to talk to Mycroft again?”

“Yes,” John said, his feet flapping against the floor as he made his way across the floor to his chair. “Please,” he added, stopping to rub his head affectionately against Sherlock’s shin. “How was training?”

Sherlock sighed. Finally, they could talk about his disastrous night, but not until he’d showered. “Terrible,” he said. “I need a shower.”

“Bathroom’s yours,” John said. “If you can flick on the kettle on the way, that would be great.”

+++

A shower did a lot for Sherlock’s mood, and as he wrapped a towel around his hips, he sighed, looking down at himself. He actually looked slightly sunburned, his arms pink with the exposure to natural light. It was weird. He wondered if his cheeks were pink too; John would probably berate him for it if they were, which would at least let him know one way or the other.

“It will be fine tomorrow,” he told himself. He’d be back to his normal, pale self. The same look he’d become accustomed to over the last hundred and thirty odd years. No sunburn to worry about. _Just this ice in my veins, begging for the heat of fresh blood._

“No,” he told himself. _You promised John._

A few moments to dress and choose a shirt – long sleeves to cover the scars in the crook of his arm – he would never be used to those, no matter how long he walked around. John had his own scars, fishing nets being what they were, but Sherlock was never quite comfortable displaying his. The bites were well healed but the silver tissue would always invoke shame.

“Cuppa?” John prompted Sherlock before he could drop into his chair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but returned to the kitchen, making a mug of tea for John before finding a bottle of B-positive in the back of the fridge. He hated how much Mycroft teased him for his preference, given their family cynicism, but the taste was far superior to the gunk Mycroft chose to put in his body. He wasn’t that hungry for bottled stuff, but he needed something.

_Something…_

“Here you go,” Sherlock murmured, leaving John’s mug on his table. The sound of John’s typing was oddly soothing, as he searched for each letter, carefully pecking at it with his beak. Slow and relaxing, which suited Sherlock to a T right now; his mind was racing, full of too many years of memories and a pull in his bones towards that something. Something dark that whispered through his veins.

_Come and get me. Find me, fill your mouth and your veins. Let me soothe the ice._

“No,” Sherlock muttered to himself. When he raised his eyes, John had stopped typing and was looking right at him.

“Rough one, hey?” John said.

Sherlock met his eyes across the space. “Yes,” he said quietly.

John was patient, and he sipped at his tea as he waited for Sherlock to elaborate.

“Greg paired me with a new boxer.” Sherlock felt his mouth twist. “I was unaware of his inexperience.”

John sighed. “You broke his nose, didn’t you?”

“Yep,” Sherlock said, popping the p. He shook his head. “He was a B-positive with primary polycythemia.”

John winced. “Ouch.”

“Not the easiest night,” Sherlock agreed. He sighed, swallowing at the memory of the fresh, warm blood. It had splashed across the ring, bright and smelling of all the extra red blood cells the rookie was carrying around without even knowing it.

_Come and get me…_

“Tempting?” John asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “But we both know I wouldn’t do that to Greg.”

_Or you._

“I know,” John said. “He knows how hard it is for you to box with him, with the injuries and stuff.”

“Oh come on, a vampire boxing? How is that difficult?” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You are as normal as anyone,” John told him firmly.

“Of course I am. A gay boxing vampire with a little penguin for a husband.”

“Oi!” John said indignantly.

“You are a little penguin, John,” Sherlock said. “Eudyptula minor.”

“I am aware of my taxonomic denomination, thank you,” John said stiffly.

“I thought we agreed ‘little penguin’ was a better term than ‘fairy penguin’,” Sherlock said, enjoying the indignation radiating off John’s small body. This was one of their regular sniping arguments. He drew comfort from the familiar volley.

“Fairy penguin or not, I will kick your arse if you call me that, Sherlock,” John said firmly. His tiny black eyes fixated on Sherlock's. "Drain that mug will you, your face is all pink. You need the haemoglobin."

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock said, finishing the last of his B-positive.

He grinned as John shifted and wiggled his bum, judging the leap off his chair before committing to it, his small body landing with a thud on the hard floor. The sight of John walking determinedly up the ramp they’d set up always made him smile – the effort involved was so great, with John’s tiny legs. Sherlock would not admit it, even to John, but it made him feel loved. Worthy of the effort.

Without speaking he raised one arm, creating a space for John to snuggle into his side, webbed feet tucked in under his body. It was a miracle to Sherlock they’d found each other – two outcasts, nocturnal creatures out of place yet determined to remain among people. They craved the rush, the excitement of London, and to Sherlock’s endless amazement, they craved each other in equal measures.

“I was wrong,” John said, a little sleepy now that he was tucked into the small space between Sherlock’s body and the chair. “You are not normal, Sherlock Holmes. You are extraordinary.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock murmured.

As the sun rose over London they drifted into sleep together.


End file.
